Mark turned the corner and noticed power lines. He checked his cell. Still no bars. After about mile he saw a person by the road. As he got closer the shrubs surrounding the mailbox gave only the appearance of a human.

The flag was up on the box. After a glance in both directions, he peeked inside and pulled out an envelope. The handwritten name and address were in all caps. The letter was on its way to Burton Felks in Missoula, MT. In the upper left corner was simply ‘Felks’ with an address matching the number on the mailbox. A forever-stamp was affixed on the proper spot.

The long driveway was a two-track which melded together the further down them he looked. The wires drooped between poles on down the line to where he hoped a house might be. 

A loaded gun tucked in his pocket provided some relief. The last time he pulled the trigger was at the CPL class over a year ago. If an irate dog or bigfoot turned up, he might get a couple of shots off. There’s a chance an old farming couple might welcome him for tea. Right.

He hadn’t seen a car since he began hoofing it. Pickleball shoes or not, twenty miles to Shawquist on foot wasn’t a choice. With darkness folding in soon he picked a rut in the driveway and walked it like a rail.

“I sure hope there’s a friendly face on the other end of this.”

Mark edged into the woods about twenty yards down to take a leak. As he relieved himself a dog barked, then two, then a trio of howls ensued. His gut crumpled as if he had seen police strobes in the rearview. He remembered a show where bloodhounds were dispatched to find the escaped convict.

He whispered, “Criminy, I only checked somebody’s mail, it’s not a federal offense…oh, wait.”

After zipping up, he froze. The hounds kept on until a man yelled.

“Settle! Stay!” After a few whines, the dogs went silent.

Mark stood still as a statue. He was glad he had already relieved himself. How humiliating for a grown man to be shot after he soiled himself. He slipped his revolver out and turned the safety off. The 22-caliber pistol hung straight off his right pantleg. Goose bumps spread around his whole body with domino effect.  

I’m screwed.

Time warped through his fear and seemed to stop altogether.

What was I thinking? Did I really need aftershave today? If I can smell it surely those mutts are on to me. What an idiot. Dogs can sense fear, too. Mark, get ahold of yourself.

The definitive sound of someone racking a shotgun stopped Mark’s lungs and triple timed his heart. From deeper in the brush he heard, “Not one move. Drop anything that shoots, cuts, or causes a concussion. Try anything and these shells will knock you into eternity. Understood?”

“Yes.” 

He let loose of his revolver and didn’t move a tendon. Mark followed the voice with his eyes but didn’t see a thing. Then, like binoculars, a double barrel telescope out of the tangled greenery. A man stepped through and stood with legs shoulder-width apart, one foot slightly in front of the other. He pulled down the camo bandana from his face. 

“What kind of dead are you looking for this fine day?”

“Uh, the kind of dead that doesn’t kill me.”

“Oh, a comedian, eh? I don’t see a laughing matter laying around anywhere. Do you?”

“Uh, no. It’s just that I’ve never had a shotgun pointed at me before.”

The man scanned me from top to bottom without a word.  

“I ran out of gas a couple of miles from here.”

The man shook his head. “Well, you’re no boy scout. You ran out of gas and carried a pistol that’ll take all six rounds to put someone down. Nice touch with the shoes, too.”

Mark’s shoulders relaxed as he looked down at his two-toned cream and orange sneakers.

“Sorry, Mister, I’m from Bristol and…”

“Now it all makes sense.”

“What?”

“The shoes, the gun, the iced tea hanging out of your pocket, and a musky smell drifting my way. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a jacket wrapped around a fella’s waist, too. Let me guess, your two-door, convertible sportster let you down.”

“A Miata, actually.” 

“Figures.”

He sure pulls the trigger on opinions fast. Pretty accurate though. My face felt hot and I wished I knew how to tone down the embarrassment that was front and center. Obviously, I began raising my hands slowly as is protocol.

“What do you think you’re doing? Put ‘em down.”

“But I thought…”

“I’ll do the thinking. The man with the bigger gun does the thinking. Arms up or down, I still have your center mass locked in, and my testy little finger is good to go.”